


lucky for life

by ficfucker



Category: No Country for Old Men (2007)
Genre: Ambiguous Gender For Reader, Biting, One Night Stands, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: reader is a bartender who serves a bizarre and stoic man
Relationships: anton chigurh/reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	lucky for life

**Author's Note:**

> tried to emulate mccarthys style from the novel but im not sure if i succeeded
> 
> i wrote this as a trans man but am fine with cis women + anyone else of any gender relating to & enjoying it

“I don’t do this often,” he says after a long pull of his whiskey. Nothing has prompted him to speak. 

You look up from the spot you’ve been polishing with your rag. “Don’t do what often?”

“This,” he says blankly. His index finger swipes back and forth over the cool beads gathering on the bottom rim of his glass. 

“Comin’ drinkin’?” you ask. By the stiff gait and the odd expressionless way he’s interacted with you thus far, you know something is off about this guy. 

“Yes," he says. "Coming drinking.” 

“Well, I’d guess you’re reckonin’ right since I ain’t never seen you here before.” 

He takes another hit. He gulps. He looks at you evenly with his startling blue eyes. “Did you assume me a liar?” 

“A liar?”

“Yes. A liar. Did you believe I was lying to you?”

You shake your head. The back of your neck feels hot and you clench your fingers down into your rag where it sits unmoving on the surface of the bar. “No, sir. I was just agreein’ with you is all.”

“Agreeing,” he repeats flatly. 

You nod. “Yes, sir. I ain’t seen you ‘round, you must not come drinkin’ often.” 

A small, unsettling smile graces his serious face. His eyes narrow, predatory. 

You feel ruffled so you turn around to stack glasses in their proper order. An excuse not to make eye contact with him any further. “I was jus’ makin’ small talk,” you say softly.

“So was I.” 

Someone down at the end of the row hollers for you and you turn to the brooding man and his whiskey and rake your eyes over him quickly and his remain set steady to yours and you ask, “Do you mind if I go get this?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m runnin’ off on this little talk we’re havin’.” 

“You have a job to do. It would be stupid to be offended by you doing it.” 

Something has you glued in place. The hairs on your arms stand up. You say, “I’m tryin’ to provide you with the best service I can, sir. I don’t want you thinkin’ me rude.” 

Another holler for a beer.

The man looks slowly to his left to see the impatient regular whining for his drink several stools down. He looks back at you and says, “Your best should be given to all and you’re clearly not providing it to him.” 

You flush with embarrassment and scuttle off to attend to other patrons. You apologize and start passing out the appropriate drinks and have very little room for explaining before the guys are placated and laughing about something else. 

You go to return to your station, but see the man has gone. He’s left a few bills under his empty, still sweating glass and paid in exact change. The quarters are stacked neatly. He’s given no tip, but you didn’t expect one from him. 

* * *

Two nights later and the man returns. He sets in the same seat and orders the same drink. 

“Makin’ a habit of the things you don’t do often?” He doesn’t seem the type for humor. Once the question has left your mouth, you clamp shut. 

“No. I happen to be in your town for the time being. I am indulging.” 

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you?”

“I’d like to think I do, sir.” 

“You’d like to think you do.”

“Yes, sir,” you say. 

There’s a beat of quiet. Someone’s put a quarter in the jukebox and chosen The Youngbloods. 

“How long have you worked here?” he inquires. 

“3 years this summer.” 

"Do you enjoy it?" 

You nod. You're glad it's not a busy night. Whoever this man is, his aura demands attention. "Yes, sir," you say. "I enjoy it mighty." 

Another gulp. "Do you drink?" 

"Do I myself drink?" 

"Yes." 

You glance at a table behind the man that needs to be cleared. "No, sir. Not often." 

"At work?" 

You shake your head. "Never at work." You step around the bar and explain you've got to gather bottles and rag a table. 

He nods and doesn't turn to watch you. It's a relief. You clear the bottles and their caramel bodies clink empty in your arms and you swipe the top clean and after, go back about your business with the mystery man. 

He's quiet. His eyes are fixed on you. 

"You got a name?" you ask boldly. You lean an elbow on the counter. You hope it looks casual, not tense. 

He blinks. He moves his tongue around in his mouth and considers and says, "Anton." 

He doesn't ask for yours and you don't offer it. 

Anton reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and produces enough bills and change to cover his drink. He sets them on the bar and keeps one quarter in his hand. 

"Call it." 

"Call it?" you ask, gathering up his pay. 

"Heads or tails." 

You don't know what you're calling. You look at him a moment, him rolling the silver piece between his fingers idly, and you wonder where he's come from and how long he'll be around to indulge himself here and you say, "I'll call it. Toss it." 

Anton flicks the quarter up and it catches the dim light of the bar and looks gorgeous and mystical as an astrolabe and it lands down and he puts his hand over it to cover the result. 

"Tails," you say. 

And Anton moves his hand to show you're correct and something pinches ghostly slight in his features and he gives you a fake half smile and he says, "Good call." 

And he leaves without another word. 

* * *

Anton comes back the very next night. He's in the same coat and boots and sets at the same spot at the bar.

It's twenty minutes to closing and last call has already been called and beside other staff and a couple of boys putting on their jackets by the door, it's just you and him. 

"Do you live alone?" he asks when you're near enough to hear. 

It's an odd question. It puts you on alert, but you're so intrigued by him you answer anyway. 

"No, sir. I got a dog." 

He watches you lock the register. 

"Your call was lucky yesterday." 

"Lucky for what?" 

"Forever. For life," he says like a shrug. 

You don't understand wholly. It seems like he's playing at something bigger here. Maybe in a past life he was a great oracle who delivered truths from God in the same blank way he's makes conversation here and now. 

"You don't call me sir now that you know my name," he notes. "But you don't use my name either." 

"Which do you prefer?" 

Anton blinks. If he's surprised by the question, he masks it well. He doesn't answer. Instead, he asks, "If I was the one to offer it, would you drink?" 

"Are you askin' me to your place?" 

"I'm asking if you'd say yes to me offering you a drink." 

You squint. "Is that a hypothetical?" 

"If you'd like it to be." 

"Sure, alright. I'd say yes if you was offerin'." 

"I'm offering right now. I'll buy you a drink." 

So you agree on a whim and go tell your coworker, an older, motherly woman who is your ride, that you're going home with someone tonight and she needn't wait up and if she'd please stop by to feed your dog and let him out and you clock out and meet Anton in the parking lot. 

He's by a truck. It doesn't have front plates. 

Everything about this screams serial murder abduction. It thrills you dumbly. You get in the cab and he drives without the radio on. 

* * *

Anton takes you to a small motel just outside of town. His room has a single king bed, a television, a nightstand with a shaded lamp, a desk paired with a chair, and wood panel walls. 

He'd stop at a convenient store on the way and gone in and bought a case of bottled Heineken. It'd taken him a while. You'd stayed in the truck and watched him move through the white light aisles to the cooler doors. 

He'd talked with the cashier a long time. It didn't seem like much conversation. Neither moved their mouth much and not for long, but it seemed different than your typical one item check out. 

At the motel, he goes in first and you follow. He sets the beers on the bed and sets next to them and takes off his boots so he's in stocking feet. 

You take the wooden desk chair and pull it up so you're near to him friendly but not intimate and you mimic his boot taking off and you're both in your socks. 

"What made you say yes?" he asks. He hands you a green bottle and you take it and feel the cool glass against your palm. 

"Why'd you ask me?" you ask back. 

"You made a lucky call. I'm indulging." 

"That makes a pair." 

He nods distantly and lifts his own bottle to his lips and takes a quiet sip. 

"I bet I know the business you're in," you say daringly. 

He looks over at you and his eyes seemed amused and he asks, "What business am I in?" 

"Somethin' outlaw." 

"You think I'm an outlaw." 

You nod and sip your beer. "That's one word for it." 

"Yes, it is. What makes you think I'm in the business of being an outlaw?" 

You think about it for a moment. He's watching you in the hawkish way of his. "You ain't told me your last name and your truck ain't got plates. You said you're in town for the time bein' and I reckon that means you go drifting often." 

"I could simply be a drifter then." 

"You could be anybody." 

Anton nods. "Anybody can be anybody, but they're always who they are." 

"Your accent isn't from here," you add, the bottle to your lips. 

"Where do you think I'm from?" 

"Wherever you're from, I reckon. I can't place it." 

It's quiet. Someone in a neighboring room has their radio on and it's playing something gothic and slow but through the walls you can't tell exactly what. Anton sips his drink. 

"Why would you agree if you think I'm dangerous?" 

You make eye contact with him. "Maybe I'm dumb." 

"Maybe." 

Talking circles with him is getting stale. You don't care for answers, but sitting and drinking isn't as fun as where your mind can wander to. He hasn't turned on the TV and doesn't offer to. 

"Is this all you wanted? Someone to drink with?" 

"Did you want more from it?" 

You smile, amused. You lower your bottle. "You ever answer without a question?" 

"Do you?" 

"We're chasin' rabbits." 

Anton has finished his beer and gets up and sets it on the stand that holds the television and sets back down and looks at you. "Then tell me your intentions." 

"I don't think I can without yours first." 

"You need permission." It seems like a question, but he says it flatly, with very little inflection. 

Your cheeks burn all the way up to your ears. "I figured you'd want to fuck or somethin'," you say bluntly. 

"Is that what you want?" 

"If you'd want it back." It's embarrassing, the whole situation. You feel like a first grader. Something drops and pits warmly in your stomach. 

"What sway does my want have?" 

"This is a two way street." 

"Usually it is." 

You drain down your bottle. You get up and set it next to Anton's by the television and turn around and stand in front of him. He parts his thighs some. 

An invitation. 

You step forward so you're between them.

Anton doesn't reach out to touch you and you don't reach out to touch him. He watches you the way a fed fox watches a rabbit. He could, but it serves him nothing, so he doesn't. 

You put a palm to his warm, thick neck. A pulse beats drums through him. 

"How lucky was that coin toss?" you ask in a hush. 

"Lucky," he answers. 

You, being much smaller, get yourself into his lap and he puts his hands to your hips to steady you and you look down at him and he up at you. You brush a strand of dark hair out of his face. He doesn't flinch or lean into it. 

You drag your hand down his chest. He's still got his jacket on and you tug gently at the lapels and he understands and shucks it off with your help and it falls back onto the mattress. 

In return, Anton roughly paws the hem of your work shirt. You lift your arms and he pulls it off you and drops it on the floor and stares blankly at your partial nudity. 

You take hold of his wrist and guide his hand to the front of your work slacks. 

"Mm." He strokes you twice through the material of your pants, his eyes trained down, then dips his hand into your underwear. His touch is weirdly gentle. 

You crane your body and make an embarrassing coo. One hand is still circled around his wrist. Your other grips his shoulder. 

"Lay back," you say. 

He obeys wordlessly and reclines until you're straddled over him and you roll off him and inch up the mattress so you're closer to his face and you both roll onto your sides. Anton looks at you for a long moment. His breathing has heightened but he keeps it level. 

"Take my pants off," he says. 

It's your turn to listen. You work his fly and undo the silver button. His jeans come apart in two folds to reveal white briefs. Fruit of the Loom. You jerk the jeans down until they're pinned under his thighs and he eases his hips up to help get them off the rest of the way and then he's in his underwear. 

He sits up and takes his shirt off. He lies back down and faces you and in the low lamp light of the small motel room, you shamelessly rake your eyes down his body. 

Scars. Puckered skin that was certainly once the entrance wound of a bullet in one of his legs. His wrists torn ragged in perfect clasps. Various other lines of raised and lightened flesh, over his shoulders, his forearms. 

"Outlaw," you whisper. Your pulse quickens. 

Anton doesn't respond to the claim. Instead, he reaches out and touches your chest, skims his hand down to your navel. 

You shiver under his touch and reciprocate it and cup him through his underwear and stroke his hardness. Your stomach is coiled hotly. 

Anton shifts up so he's on his elbows. He comes over you so he's atop you and it thrills you greatly, how big and strong this man is, and you roll onto your back and he sits up to pull your pants off. You raise his hips like he did and he shucks them off easily and tosses them aside and presses himself back to you. 

He palms your throat. For a moment you think he's going to choke you, but his touch drifts down and he paws your chest, strokes down to your stomach, then finally your sex. 

You say, "Oh lord," because it's all you can think to say with him boxing you in between him and the world like this and he keeps touching you and looking down at you. 

You fumble blindly for his underwear. You slip your hand into the elastic strap and ruck the front down enough to get his cock free and you curl your hand around him. 

He grunts and nothing else. 

Anton's wet lapis eyes are still looking down at you and you wonder how often he has sex and if it's always pure business and you wonder if he wants to kiss you and if you should. Things seem to always be played on his terms. 

You lean up and kiss him. You twist your wrist fiercely around him and he breathes into your mouth and after a moment of nothing, he kisses back. . He bites your bottom lip harsh and loveless. You writhe under him. His precum pearls in your hand and trails down your fingers in thin lines. 

Anton sets back and worry puddles in your chest. Done something wrong. 

Instead, he reaches over to the nightstand and opens the top drawer and produces a single silver wrapped condom and opens it. He doesn't ask if you want it. You've made it clear and now his want is apparent as yours and you lie back patiently in the thin motel sheets. 

He works his briefs down so they're clung to his mid thighs and he rolls the condom over himself and climbs back over you and you put your hand to his cock to guide him and he thrusts in. 

You whimper. 

"Glory," you gasp. 

Anton is alien quiet. He kisses your throat and it's weirdly soft, like how he'd touched between your legs, and you throw your head back as he rolls his hips and trails down your naked neck. 

You have your arms wrapped around him, going up and down his back with the tips of your short nails. He keeps driving into you and you take it and he bites your collarbone so ferociously you cant your hips up and feel the blood bead and drip warmly down your chest. 

"Sorry," he says as if he's been impolite in front of a guest. 

"S'alright," you hiccup out. Your gut is tight and warm and your legs are starting to get shaky. "Keep goin'," you add. 

Anton does. It's seeing stars and tasting pink and moving like animals and he keeps quiet in that way of his, all of him so unsettling, save for a few grunts and gasps as he goes and your nails dig into him and leave behind imprints thin as blades of grass. 

Anton stiffens and comes inside you inside the condom. His torso is slick with a sheen of sweat and he exhales from his mouth. He slides out of you and sets up and pulls the condom off and ties it and puts it in the trash. 

You haven't finished yet. You pant. 

Anton looks at you and seems to consider and he must be indulging in ways he surely doesn't ever, because he comes back over to you and noses down your stomach to the V of your legs and takes you into his mouth. 

You whine and tighten and card your fingers through his dark hair. His mouth is warm and wet and you kind of hump yourself against him and he allows it. His eyes stay on you. He almost looks bored, eyes so steady and without emotion. 

You shudder and raise your hips off the mattress completely and your thighs vice around his head and you come. He laps his tongue over you through it. 

You slump in the sheets and Anton sets up and looks at you and says, "I'm clean. I don't have diseases." 

"I'm the one you got bleedin'. You should be worried about yourself." 

"Should I be?" 

You shake your head. "No. I'm clean, too." 

Anton nods and sets there with his underwear half way pulled down and his cock is flaccid in the nest of dark curly pubic hair that gathers between his legs and he says, "You should take a shower. Then go home." 

"Okay," you say and you do just that. 

* * *

You have Anton drop you at the end of your street because you don't want him knowing which house is yours. It's stupid. He could track you like a bloodhound if he wanted to but it soothes your nervousness an inch. 

You open the passenger door of his truck and he says, "Take this," and when you turn to look at him in the dark of the cab, he's holding out a few hundred dollars. 

"I don't want you paying me for sex." 

"It's not for the sex. We didn't have sex. You've never seen me. You've never been to that motel." 

You look at him a long time silently and he keeps holding out the money and you say, "Right. I ain't never seen you, sir." 

"Right." 

You take the money hesitantly. You step out of the truck and watch him idle before pulling away from the curb and you watch him and his no-plates leave like a passing storm. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading
> 
> kudos + comments are much appreciated
> 
> let me know if you want me to write something like this again


End file.
